10 Veins To Nicki's Heart
by HedgieX
Summary: Rambling fluffy suggestions as to how Tom and Nicki could get together; each of the ten chapters is a long one-shot, basically. I think the title explains it better than the summary, so... Expect cupcakes, ballet, bees, and hopefully plenty of romance. Dedicated to Sarah "Never-Clip-My-Wings-x", and to the loyal Waterloo Road fans everywhere, to keep you going until series eight.
1. Chapter 1: Cupcakes

**Chapter One: Cupcakes**

"Morning," Tom sighed, sinking down into his chair.

He realised that sounded a little possessive – _his _chair – but it was true; the staff at Waterloo Road were creatures of habit, and tended to claim particular furniture as their own. Grantly was incredibly attached to his coffee table.

Michael's reply was muffled, "M-morning."

On closer inspection, his colleagues weren't in their usual seats around the room, but instead huddled around at the back. He slipped his coat from his shoulders and straightened his tie, then moved closer.

"Oh, hi Tom," Nicki said.

"Hi."

She was looking at his chest. _She was looking at his chest. _He glanced down, and realised there was a smear of jam across the collar. He rubbed at it self-consciously. "Was a bit of a rush this morning. Josh trying to finish his Maths homework, you know?"

Michael nodded, "It's fine."

Tom raised his eyebrows. Normally, his boss would've understood the lame attempt to blame Josh as what it really was. _I slept in. The alarm didn't go off. I've got a hangover. _Today, he didn't seem at all interested.

"What's happening? Grantly?" Tom looked around his colleagues. They all looked shifty, wiping their mouths, brushing down their tops. "Sian? Anyone?"

"Well," Nicki looked back up again, paused, then began to speak quickly, her voice higher than usual, her words jumbling together, "I made cupcakes. And we were... we were eating them."

"Rather nice," Grantly said approvingly, "Actually."

"Oh, right," Tom smirked, "So where's mine?"

"Um, that's the thing, you see, Tom, I..."

"What?"

"I... we... we thought you weren't coming in, or something... so we thought there was no point in saving you any cake." Nicki mumbled, licking a splodge of pink icing from the corner of her mouth, "Chalky just had the last one."

"Oh, right." _You've just said that, Tom. Sounding like a Dalek isn't cool. She won't be attracted by that._ "Right."

"I'm sorry, Tom, I didn't..."

"No, it's fine."

Chalky gave him an apologetic smile and held out a fragment of fluffy sponge with sticky fingers. Tom shook his head, tried to smile back, tried to calm himself down.

_Why am I getting flustered over a cake?_ _What the hell is wrong with me? It's not like I'm hungry – I've just eaten toast and jam. As Nicki now knows; does she think I'm a pig, expecting toast and cake? Why do I care?_

"Anyway," Michael raised his voice over the contented chatter of the staffroom, "I think that concludes our meeting nicely. I'm sure you need no reminding of parents' evening tomorrow night – make sure you've done your prep. And thank you for the cakes, Nicki; they really were lovely."

She smiled, "Well, you know, when you're bored at the weekend..."

Tom felt a flutter of jealousy. Cake was the way to a man's heart, and evidently compliments were the route to a woman's. He needed to work on compliments. What exactly did he say to her, though? Her eyes – he loved her eyes, how clear and piercing they were. _You've got beautiful eyes._ No, no, no.

"Are you alright, Tom?"

He looked up to see Michael hanging over him, his voice concerned, his eyes questioning. The smell of mint in his breath was overpowering; Tom felt suddenly claustrophobic.

As a boy, he'd been frightened of being close to people. Not in the emotional sense – although he'd been pretty crap at friendship too, and romance had been a definite no-go – but the physical one. He got scared when people came close. He didn't like his teachers to touch his arm supportively, or his neighbours to pat him on the shoulder.

People didn't believe him now, if he told them about his childhood, but he'd been an unhappy boy. Not unpopular, really – he was never really bullied or ostracised from circles of kids. He just did his own thing, never felt like he fitted in with anyone else. It had taken him a long time to trust anyone.

"Tom?"

"Yeah," he shook his head, "Yeah, sorry."

"Are you alright? You look a bit wiped out."

The only day Michael hadn't lectured him on getting drunk on a work night, the only day he hadn't been bothered by his deputy's late arrival, and Tom stepped right into the trap, because it was easier than telling the truth. "Just a bit of a hangover. Sorry. I'll be alright once the Paracetamol kicks in."

The disapproving glare he was used to. "Right."

His colleagues began to file out of the room. Chalky and Grantly were arguing about something or other, probably whether English or Maths was more important – they never really argued about anything else. Tom buried his head in the latest edition of the school newspaper, taking deep breaths.

_ This month we welcome a new arrival to the school, in the shape of Head of English Miss Boston_, he read.

Oh, great. There was no escaping this bloody woman, was there? The photograph next to the article was of her in a strappy vest-top, casual and free, although somehow she still looked beautiful without seeming to make any effort.

Her eyes bore into his. Even though the image portrayed only a fraction of the emotion her features held in real life, it was enough to shock him. He'd never managed to look at her for more than a few seconds without averting his gaze like a nervous schoolchild, but now...

_Miss Boston was previously in the army, but also has a passion for English, and will bring a great deal to the community at Waterloo Road. She has already made suggestions for a self-defence club, and will be organising a poetry competition later on in the term._

A couple of years ago, Tom had arranged a poetry competition. He'd received a total of twelve entries, eight of them no longer than five lines. One had involved a bundle of randomly thrown-together words, including _bimblydink _and _fedingson_. He had absolutely no idea what either of those words meant, and he had a sneaking feeling that the poet didn't either.

The tenth and eleventh poems had been valiant attempts, but with the kind of atrocious rhyme that set his teeth on edge – the equivalent of _the cat with a hat on a mat_, but with less appeal.

He'd cried when he'd read the final poem. Absolutely beautiful, absolutely perfect, real raw talent that he'd clasped in his hands and hadn't wanted ever to have to release. But the poem had been marked _anonymous _in red ink, and nobody had ever come forward, despite his pleas. He still had that poem, somewhere. He wondered if he'd ever know who'd written it.

Another failure, then. And now Nicki was going to run one, and she'd get hundreds of entries and find brilliant poets and... and... what? Why did that bother him?

_ Miss Boston told us, "I'm really excited about working at Waterloo Road – from what I've seen already it's a wonderful school."_

"Tom?"

"Oh, hi," he closed the paper quickly. Shit. _Shit._

"Are you sure you're okay? Michael's right; you do look ill."

"Hangover."

"Yeah," she smiled, and somehow she seemed to be laughing at him, "Right."

"So, you're having a poetry competition."

"Yeah," the smile faded. He realised how bitter he sounded, like an old man. How concerned she looked, frightened that she'd upset him, not entirely sure what she'd done. "You don't mind, do you? I just thought it would be a nice idea. I asked Grantly, and he said nobody else did anything like that, so..."

"No, no. It's fine. Of course. Go ahead."

"Thanks," she nodded.

_Why does she need your approval, Tom? You don't need to sound like you're her boss, because you're not, really. Well, you are. But not when it's about English. Don't make her feel bad, when she's new and enthusiastic, and beautiful._

"Actually, would you..." she looked nervous.

"Would I..."

"You wouldn't like to help me judge it, would you? You know, I'm still sort of finding my feet here, and it would be quite nice to..." she paused again, seemed uncomfortable, but equally hopeful, "Have someone to help. Only if you're interested."

He smiled, "Of course I will."

"Okay. Well, I'd better... see you later?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Good idea."

XxXxX

When Tom entered his classroom the following morning – early, in case Michael was still on the warpath – there was a cardboard box on his desk, dotted with holes. He wondered if someone had brought him a stray animal, but then wiped the sleep from his eyes and dismissed the suggestion. _Psychopath._

Inside, wrapped in a pink napkin, were two little cakes. One was marked with a _T_, and one with an _N_, and a little card was tucked between them. _Just to make up for yesterday,_ he read. Even her writing was beautiful. _I'll be in my classroom at lunch, so if you're free and want to pop along, we could think about planning the poetry competition. Or just eat the cakes._

He took a piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolded it, stared down at the article entitled 'Miss Boston' again. His eyes moved to the last line. _Miss Boston also likes to make cupcakes._ He grinned. He didn't think he had anything on at lunch.

XxXxX

**Please review! If anyone has any suggestions for titles of the later chapters, I'd be more than happy to listen to them! xx**


	2. Chapter 2: Beegate

**HOW AMAZING WAS THE FIRST EPISODE OF THE NEW SERIES? *MASSIVE FANGIRLING MOMENT***

**Hi guys, sorry I haven't updated Bleeding Love for a while, I'm hoping to continue it again soon;') in the mean time, this is just some fluffy scenes for you...**

**For anyone who doesn't know, I am a MAJOR supporter of Nikki&Tom (incidentally Heather Peace returns in the second half of series two) and my WR fics centre around them!**

**Chapter 2: Bee-gate**

"What the _hell_ is going on in here?"

Tom stood in the doorway of Nicki's classroom, hands on hips, eyes flitting around the chaos. Desks shoved up against the walls, chairs tipped up on the carpet, sheets of paper flying around in the breeze.

Everyone screaming.

It reminded Tom of a scene he'd seen on Spooks once. A bomb scare in the middle of an office, the blinds fluttering, the tension unbearable. The workers had been silent for a few moments, but once the reality had set in, they'd lost any professionalism and run around madly, sobbing, screaming, praying to any God who'd listen. Those last few moments, trying to contact their families, leaving hysterical voicemails: _I love you so much, darling. I love you._

Yes, it was just a bloody TV programme. He'd not been frightened of much – he'd taught himself to be brave as a child. But bombs petrified him, anything like that petrified him, for some reason; the idea of such terror, of everyone's lives being in the hands of terrorists, of pure destruction. It wasn't rational; he couldn't explain it. When the twin towers had fallen, he'd sat watching with tears running down his face.

"Sir, Sir," one of the girls squealed from her refuge point huddled up on a desk behind the door.

The sound of children being frightened and in pain was the most heart-wrenching sound in the world, but these children weren't frightened. There was laughter mixed in with the squealing. They were enjoying the turmoil.

"_Silence_," he yelled, stepping into the room.

A hush fell over them.

"When the hell is Miss Boston? What the hell is going on? Why aren't you doing your poetry, like you're supposed to be?"

He didn't make it clear if his questions were rhetorical, or simply his thinking aloud, so nobody spoke.

"What is this? A dramatical re-enactment of..." he paused, because he wasn't entirely sure what poem this kind of behaviour would match, "Right, all of you, tidy up the classroom, right now."

"Tom," Nicki said quietly from the doorway.

"Where the hell have you been?"

She just shook her head. All the anger and confusion drained from him, and all he wanted to do was run to her side and sweep her up in his arms. Her face was glittering with droplets, possibly a combination of tears and sweat, or perhaps she'd splashed it in the bathroom.

She was shaking. He could see she was shaking. Her chest was heaving.

"You..." he stopped again.

Around them, half of the class were beginning to arrange the tables back into the normal groups, whilst the rest were frozen, watching their teacher. Nobody was laughing now.

"Okay, just get on with... do your work, quickly and quietly," he said, "We'll be back in a few minutes."

XxXxX

"Here. Drink this."

"Thanks."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Tom sat down beside her. The sofa sagged under his weight, and yet she seemed not to squash the cushions down at all. She seemed so small, and so vulnerable. She held the mug of coffee close, as though she needed to soak up every last morsel of heat from it that she could. She wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Nicki..."

"I've made a complete fool of myself..."

"And there was me thinking you were upset about the bee."

She didn't smile.

"Nicki, there's nothing to worry about, honestly. Everyone is scared of something." _Everyone get into the middle of the room, away from the windows, get your heads down, stay still. _The shattering of glass, the squeals of women piercing his heart. "Nobody thinks anything less of you for what's happened."

"I'm a coward, Tom. We encourage them to face their fears, and I just ran away. Isn't that just hypocrisy at its finest?"

"Well," he sighed, "I don't think so. And my opinion might not count for much, but I think it shows that even_ you_ aren't perfect. It would've been stupid of you to stay there, wouldn't it? If there's a football flying at your face, it doesn't make you a coward to jump out of the way, does it?"

"That's different."

He raised his eyebrows, "Drink that. This may come as a surprise to you, but the coffee isn't there to look pretty. That's your job."

The corners of her mouth twitched this time, "You're wasted here, Mr Clarkson. You should've become a doctor."

"Or a psychologist, perhaps."

"Perhaps."

Tom nodded, "So, are you going to explain all of this to me?"

"Explain what?"

"Well, don't people normally have reasons for being scared? Some are fairly crap reasons, admittedly, but did something happen? Were you stung when you were a kid?"

Nicki fixed him with a surprisingly stern glare, "A phobia is an irrational fear, Tom. It's _irrational._ You don't always know why you feel like that."

"Of course. Sorry."

Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged sheepishly, "My reasons are pretty crap, I suppose. I was at school, probably a couple of years younger than Josh is now. There was a bee in the classroom, and everyone was squealing; the lads were hitting it with their books, the girls were begging to go to the toilets. The teacher was screaming at us all to sit still, and I sat still, and it stung me."

"Oh."_ Get rid of the mental image, Tom. Not helpful. _"That's not crap. That's perfectly reasonable. Never trust the teachers, hey?"

"I had an allergic reaction. Anaphylactic shock. I was... I don't know, I couldn't breathe, I was crying, and throwing up, and..."

"Oh."

"I was fine. I had to stay in hospital for the day, but... well, I was fine. I've got an epi-pen; I know what to do if..." she trailed off again, shook her head, "I was stung a couple of times in the army. Hurt a lot, but the lads looked after me – I was fine. It's just this time..."

She was leaning against him now, and he she wasn't so light as the cushions had made out. Not that she was heavy, just nice, a warm weight against his arm, a comforting presence. Comforting? Shouldn't he be comforting her, really? He patted her shoulder awkwardly.

"Sorry, Tom. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."

"Of course you're not."

"I s'pose I'd better get back to the chaos, anyway. Explain."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She sat up a little, "Would you?"

"Someone's got to inject a little humour into the telling of the bee-gate scenario, haven't they?" he smirked, sitting up too, suddenly not so awkward. Reaching out and taking her hand, marvelling at the warmth, at the smoothness of her skin. "Or it'll be like one of those sob stories from the _X Factor_, and we really can't have that."

"No. They'll be voting for me and everything."

Before they reached the door, Nicki turned back to him, reached out and brushed his arm. He convinced himself the spark between them was static. Her eyes told him otherwise. "Tom..."

"It's alright, Nicki."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know it is. But I was wondering... what are you doing tonight? You're not... you're not busy with Josh or anything, are you?"

"No, he's going to Jack's. They're _watching a movie_."

"Ah. So... so do you fancy coming over to mine? I need to show you how to use an epi-pen, after all, in case you need to be my knight in shining armour. There are always a lot of bees around in summer."

"That figures," he smirked, "Yes, I think that would be a good idea."

"And the doctors always said I shouldn't be left alone, after a shock, so maybe that applies to a near-shock too. In a way."

"I'm sure it does."

She smiled, "I need the bloody votes, don't I? Sob story: I'm a) allergic to bee stings, so I might die, but more importantly, b) my chat-up lines are seriously lacking in... well, they're pretty shit, really."

"They're good enough for me."

"Aw," she squeezed his arm, then turned away, leaving him to follow her.

His heart thudding. _God, you tease, Nicki Boston. How I love bees._

XxXxX

**Some aspects of this are kind of loosely based on real life. So thanks to those people who inspired it. Please review and tell me what you thought, or give me ideas for future chapters!xx**


	3. Chapter 3: Rumours

**Sorry I haven't updated for a while – have a long chapter to make up for it;)**

**How's everyone finding the new series now it's in Scotland? I actually rather like it, and the new characters all seem to fit in well, but it's rather odd...**

**EVERYONE GO AND READ NEVER-CLIP-MY-WINGS-X'S NEW STORIES, SHE IS THE BEST FANFIC WRITER I HAVE EVER MET, AND I GENUINELY MEAN THAT.**

**Chapter 3: Rumours**

Tom paused before he entered the staff room. Psyching himself up to see her again, taking deep breaths, wondering if you could mentally control the colour of your cheeks. Was there a button somewhere which turned off blushing?

The _Waterloo Road_ teachers took great pride in knowing 'the crack' about relationships between their students. They often used the excuse of needing to know what was going on to be able to sort things out when they got rough – which was true, given that there were normally tears and tantrums when couples split up, and sometimes even a fight over who fancied who.

They also liked to know because they were nosy. Some of them were getting on a little bit now. (How old was _getting on_? Tom had asked Josh this, and he'd splurted out a mouthful of pizza laughing. Grantly's age was definitely _getting on_, Lauren had told her friend's dad sternly, but she hadn't been willing to comment on Tom.) They needed to keep up to date with love in the twenty-first century, didn't they?

So, for instance, Trudi and Finn were together, had been for a while, but were now going through a rough patch. Phoenix fancied Scout, but she wasn't so sure, or perhaps she was just teasing.

There was also the matter of gossiping about their colleagues. The kids had plenty of ideas, which they didn't worry about voicing, and they were generally pretty spot-on too. Scout had said only last week that Grantly fancied Maggie, and now he'd proclaimed his love for her. Well, if Grantly could ever really proclaim his love...

There'd been all kinds of things going on between Sian and Michael and Jez. A while back, there'd also been Linda and the stalker issue, which had been quite funny until it got serious.

Tom knew the rumours about himself, too. _Womaniser. Anything going with a skirt on, maybe even a tie too, if he got desperate._ He wondered if anyone had explained all of the _Waterloo Road_ goings-on to Nicki yet, and if she believed the things she'd heard about him.

_Anyway._

He opened the door, was surprised to find the room almost deserted, a couple of newspapers discarded on the table, a half-empty tray of chocolate fingers. He took one, whilst he had the chance – normally, they'd be demolished before he even came out of whatever pointless meeting he'd been on that occasion. _Mm. Chocolaty._

"It's alright," Sian was saying softly.

Tom froze. Was there something going on in here he was supposed to know about? Occasionally, they got warned to stay away, if there was an important meeting between parents and Michael, for instance. But that was generally in his office, and he hadn't heard anything this time.

"It's not."

"Of course it is. It will be."

He took a couple of steps forward, when part of him wanted to retreat. Sian was perched on the edge of the kitchen worktop, swinging her legs, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers.

Nicki sat at the desk in the corner, her head in her hands. Tom felt a rush of adrenaline, wanting to rush forward and hug her. He stayed still.

"They think I'm a right bitch."

"No, they don't."

"It'll be all round the school by now, and..."

Sian shook her head, distracted. Tom winced, realising she'd heard his heavy breathing. _Shit. _His colleague placed her coffee cup on the side and jumped down, seeing him straight away. Her eyes said something in the split second before she spoke, not _please leave now_ or _don't interrupt_, but something almost pleading, something he couldn't quite understand.

"What?" Nicki asked.

"It's okay, it's just Tom."

"Oh, shit."

_Thanks, Nicki. I'm glad you're glad to see me. _"Sorry, I didn't realise..."

"No, no, Tom, it's fine. You might be able to help us, actually, mightn't he, Nicki? You don't mind?" Sian prompted, not really giving her an opportunity to opt out, "She's just had a bad day. She doesn't believe me that none of us are perfect."

"Oh dear." _Say something constructive, Tom. _"What happened?"

"Nothing," Nicki mumbled.

"Right, okay." _She doesn't trust me._ "Well, Sian's right. Everyone has their off-days sometimes. It's all part of being a teacher, all part of any job, really, isn't it?"

"Of course it is."

Nicki nodded, then covered her face again. Sian and Tom exchanged glances. Between them, it seemed they were doing a brilliant job of making her more depressed.

"Has someone upset you?" Tom asked.

"Mm."

_What the hell did that mean? _"Do you want a drink or something? A chocolate finger, before Chalky eats them all?"

"I'm okay."

"Do you want me to... to go? So you two can carry on talking?"

Nicki shook her head. Then raised it and met his gaze. Her eyes were fiery, but beneath the rage there was something different, some vulnerability he hadn't noted before in her, something he hadn't imagined plagued her. The same doubt as everyone else had to cope with on a day-to-day basis.

Those questions you asked yourself constantly. Am I making a difference at all in the world? Does a single one of the children here trust me? What is the point of life, all of the pain and suffering, all for death at the end?

"Okay," he took a step forward, reached out towards her shoulder tentatively. She flinched, but didn't remove his hand. She was tense, her entire body poised for battle. Did she want him to comfort her, or to change the subject and move on?

"Have... have the children ever spread rumours about you?"

_Oh, right. _"Of course they have. It's their favourite pass-time."

"Like... like what?"

"Well," he wrinkled his nose at Sian.

"I think the kids realised before I did that things were wrong between Jez and me. They see stuff like that. I was trying to deny it, but..."

Nicki nodded, realising that was a difficult confession for Sian to make, "They're right. I mean, the rumours are true – what they're saying is true."

"They don't need to know that."

"No, but..." her gaze fell down onto the floor, trailed along the greying tiles, marked with coffee spills and littered with paperclips and pennies, "I reacted to it. They saw it, they know it's true, I... I got angry at them, I walked out of the room. They were jeering, I could hear it all along the corridor. The whole school will know by now."

"Welcome to _Waterloo Road_," Tom said dryly.

"Nicki," Sian said softly, "I promise you, it'll all be over tomorrow. They'll have got bored. They'll spread it round a bit, exaggerate, everyone will look at you, and then by tomorrow nobody will even remember what they were laughing about."

"But... but they will."

"Well, perhaps if you tell us what's actually happened, we'll be able to sort out a super injunction or something..."

Sian shot him a glare. _Not helpful._

He nodded an apology to nobody in particular. Although it seemed to him like she was acting the naïve teenager part, maybe it was a big deal to her. She hadn't been here for very long. He couldn't remember the first rumour they'd spread about him here, but he supposed it had hurt him a lot more then than anything could now.

You grew immune to these things. You hardened your heart.

"Tom..." Nicki mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"It... it's about you, as well. I guess."

_Oh, fantastic. Drag me into all of this as well. _"Don't worry about it."

"No, but..."

"I think I'd better go and find Michael – I've just remembered I was supposed to be giving him an update on the status of the gangs. I'll come back in a bit," Sian told the room, giving Tom a half-apologetic smile as she swept past the table, took a chocolate finger and left.

_ Cheers, Sian. _Beneath the sarcasm, he felt gratitude towards her. She understood people. She knew that Nicki needed a moment alone with Tom, and although his heart thudded against his ribs now, he knew it too.

"Tom... oh, God," she sighed. He felt her shoulder tremble under his fingers. "This is going to sound so childish, but... okay, I'll just get on with it, because you already think I'm a bumbling idiot. I like you. I... I like you. And the kids know, and they were going on about it, and I just..."

"It's okay, Nicki."

She turned around to face him, "Yeah, right. It's stupid, I know. Shouldn't have crushes at our age, should we? Mature relationships, all that. I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you, Tom."

He let go of her shoulder, took her hands instead, pulled her up. Her fingers were cool in his, perfectly formed. _Of course they were perfectly formed, for God's sake. They were fingers. Enough with the fantasizing. _"It's no big deal, Nicki. Honestly."

"It's nice of you... nice of you to say that."

"I quite like the rumour, actually. Think it has appeal."

Her eyes filled with questions. "Tom..."

"You may not know this, Nicki, because you're still a newbie here really, aren't you?" he asked softly, still holding her fingertips in his, feeling her tremble, quiver with anticipation, "But there are two ways to dispel rumours. One is to keep your head down for a day, you know, like Sian said? It'll go away, always does. But the other... well, the other way is to prove the rumour right."

"Really?"

"Really. Basic laws of working in a school."

"But you mean..." she trailed off. She looked like a little school girl, adorable. Flustered, like he'd never seen her before.

He loved to uncover a different side to people. The things beneath the shield were real, not fabricated, and he generally loved a person a whole lot more if only they let him in. He squeezed her hands, pulled her a little bit closer.

"Sometimes, you just have to accept that they've won," he told her gently, teasingly, as though he were breaking bad news, "You have to straighten your tie, and go out there with your head held high and smile, and say _yes, you're right_."

"They are right."

"Exactly."

"But do you..."

"Yes. I do."

"Okay," she nodded. A smile slowly breaking out across her face as she realised what he was saying, like the plague passed from skin cell to skin cell, the dimples widening. "Okay. We should... we should go out there, then."

"Yeah. Perhaps we should."

Tom took two chocolate fingers from the table and handed her one, their other hands still intertwined. He reached up and brushed her cheek, experimentally. Her gums moved as she chewed. She was beautiful.

Sometimes, you just had to soften your heart, and accept your fate.

XxXxX

**Oh yeah, did anyone reading this used to read _Bleeding Love_? I know I didn't really give that a satisfactory ending, but I still majorly 'ship' – can't get used to that word;) – Tom & Nicki, and I can't wait for Heather to come back, so if anyone wants me to I might write a few more chapters...**

**Anyway, please review!x**


	4. Chapter 4: The Bus

**For anyone who hasn't experienced it, one of the single most amusing things about school trips is when the teachers fall asleep on the bus.**

**Chapter Four: The Bus**

"Right," Tom clapped his hands together as they halted suddenly at yet another set of traffic lights, standing up and facing the bus full of excited children. "All of you: calm down and listen."

"Are we nearly there yet, Sir?"

"Nearly. Can you put away those sweets please, Lauren, before Miss Boston is tempted to confiscate them? Because you know, once Miss Boston confiscates something, the chances of getting it back are incredibly slim..."

Nicki stirred at the sound of laughter. It took her a few moments to remember where she was and what she was doing. She saw Tom standing over her, not quite able to mask his amusement. "Sorry, I..."

"Were you asleep, Miss?" Finn asked incredulously.

Lauren grinned, stuffing a few more _Maltesers_ into her mouth, "We only set off, like, an hour ago."

"Well, you wouldn't know it, considering how many times you lot have been to the toilet during our journey," Tom told them frostily.

Nicki gave him a smile, a silent thank you for saving her from the students' laughter, but he didn't return it. In fact, he looked miserable, and perhaps a little bit pissed off too. She began to gather up her belongings hastily, fumbling with the straps on the first aid kit, spilling some of the packets onto the floor.

Tom bent down automatically to pick them up; the bus set off again, jerking as it flew around a corner, and the teacher was thrown backwards, falling on his hand. A chorus of laughter filled the bus.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he dismissed her question, shoving the boxes of tablets and plasters back into her hands and scrambling up, "It wasn't that funny, kids – get a life. We're about five minutes away from the beach now, so if everyone could make sure they've got everything – we're not going to be coming back... we won't come back to the bus."

"Let me look," Nicki reached out as he sat back down beside her, took his limp fingers in hers tenderly, "Does this hurt?"

He closed his eyes momentarily for two reasons. One: her hands were warm and smooth, and he felt embarrassed by her concern, as though he wasn't worthy of it. Two: he needed to stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes.

"Tom? Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course it hurts," he snapped, but he didn't pull his hand away.

He felt as though he should at least try to keep up the pretence of being pissed off at her sleeping for a few minutes longer, but he couldn't. He'd like it, the feeling of her breath on his shoulder as she'd snored gently, the way her hair fell over her face. He'd wanted to cuddle up beside her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's not your fault."

She dropped his hand, returning to her first aid kit and taking a bandage from it. She strapped his fingers quickly and efficiently, avoiding his gaze the whole time. "Are you going to be okay today?"

"Of course. Thanks."

"Okay, well, you should get it checked out when we get back to school, but it doesn't look too bad. Probably just a bit bruised."

"I'm just a wimp, right?" Tom smirked. Josh had always said that.

"I wouldn't go that far, but..."

"Sir!" Finn screamed suddenly.

"Some of us are only just waking up, Mr Sharkey," Nicki shouted back along the bus aisle, beginning to feel amused by the situation now, "And would appreciate a little bit of peace and quiet."

Tom nodded in agreement, nursing his hand, "And also some caffeine, but you can't have everything in this world."

"No, Sir, really!" Finn said, rushing towards them with his nose wrinkled up in disgust, "Lauren's thrown up all over; it's _Malteser _coloured and everything!"

Scout moaned, "I feel sick."

"I reckon I owe you," Nicki said to Tom, riffling through the first aid kit again and taking out a pair of disposable gloves. She was glad she'd brought this box now. Her first school trip with _Waterloo Road_ was turning out to be eventful, and it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning yet.

She cleared it up quickly without complaining. Tom watched her in astonishment, remembering the time they'd forced Grantly to clear up Janeece's vomit on a staff night out, and he'd ended up being sick too. He grinned. Nicki still had a lot to learn about being a teacher, didn't she?

They pulled up at the beach just as she finished. The children piled off the bus, thankful to be out in the open air, gasping in oxygen that wasn't tainted with the scent of mangled stomach acid and chocolate.

"You alright, Lauren?" Tom asked quietly.

"Yeah, Sir. I feel much better. Do you still want these Maltesers, Miss? I'm not sure I really fancy them that much now."

Nicki raised an eyebrow, "I think I'll pass."

XxXxX

When they finally clambered back onto the bus in the evening, most of the children stared silently out of the window at the setting sun, trying to pretend they weren't tired. Some of them began to play on phones or listen to music, but Tom and Nicki turned a blind eye – at least nobody was eating sweets this time.

"It's been a long day," Tom yawned.

Nicki, like the kids, was struggling to keep her eyes open. She slipped off her sand-coated wellies (_practical girl_, Tom thought, then blushed when he couldn't quite work out what was so attractive about that) and laid her legs in his lap.

"Your hand still sore?"

"Mm."

She smiled, "Poor Tom."

"Oh, and there was me thinking you were a sympathetic kind of girl."

"What do you mean,_ thinking_? I'm the most sympathetic girl you'll ever meet, Mr Clarkson. I was a nurse before I became a teacher, you know? Multi-talented," she shuffled, and her toes tickled his leg, "No, I'm kidding. About the nurse bit. Not the multi-talented bit; I've obviously brilliant at most things."

"And your modesty frightens me."

They both fell silent for a moment. Tom had managed to commandeer a coffee from the rickety tourist shop on the end of the promenade, and they passed it between them now, taking small sips of the bitter drink, savouring the caffeine boost as it soaked into their veins. Savouring their bodies being pressed against each other.

"Who was it who bandaged your hand?"

"But whose fault was it I hurt my hand in the first place?"

Nicki rolled her eyes, not too tired for a friendly debate, "Who was it who had to clear up all of that _Malteser_-flavoured sick?"

"Who was it who slept through the whole bloody journey to the beach? You didn't have to listen to Finn and Lauren arguing, or Scout and Phoenix kissing, did you?"

"For God's sake, Tom; you can't beat what I've done today. I was the one who had to dive into the sea fully clothed when Tariq's paddling got a little too excitable, wasn't I? Or have you wiped my genius from your brain because you're jealous?"

"Hailed as a heroine, right? But I suppose I have to hand that one to you – you were pretty cool. And your hair doesn't look so bad natural, you know; perhaps you should get wet more often," he told her gently, raising a hand to her foot, squeezing it. She wriggled her toes.

She met his gaze, and they watched each other curiously for a moment, as though there was no-one else on the bus, just learning the details of lips and freckles, and searching for emotion deep inside irises.

"I did buy the ice creams, though," Tom added as an afterthought, just in case Nicki thought she'd won. They both laughed.

"You know what, Tom?"

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me..."

"I'm not sure it's going to be very safe for you to drive tonight. I would hate it if an accident was caused because I hadn't made sure your hand was okay. So I reckon you should let me take you to the doctors, just to get it checked over, and maybe we could go out and get something to eat, or just go home and watch TV if you'd prefer, or..."

"Nicki," he cut over her.

"Sorry. I'm blabbering."

"Yeah, you are. But I like blabbering. It's cute – it's endearing, even," he said, smiling, and then becoming serious, "And maybe if we weren't on a bus, surrounded by little creeps who'd make it their life's ambition to spread lovely photographs all around the school, I might even lean in and kiss you right now."

"And I might like that."

Tom coughed, "_Might_?"

"Well, after we've been to the doctors, we can go home and find out, can't we?"

"Sounds good to me."

She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder, "Me too."

XxXxX


	5. Chapter 5: Ballet

_Hello again;) feels like I haven't updated in ages, don't know how long it's actually been, but apologies! I'll write another chapter of **Bleeding Love **and also try and update this one again ASAP, I promise._

_Whilst you're reading this chapter, listen to **Moonlight Sonata** by **Beethoven**; it's an absolutely beautiful piece of music, which I first heard on [Spooks], except I won't start talking about that again because I'll cry. Poor, poor, poor Ruth etc. Hopefully it'll set the scene for Nicki and Tom's relationship as well as Harry and Elena's. And there may also be a nice brief tribute for any [Spooks] fans._

**Chapter 5: Ballet**

The voice sounded surprised, "Nicki?"

Panic swelled up inside her momentarily whilst she registered where she knew that tone from. There were people she spent her entire life running from, not necessarily because they were bad people, but because she wanted to forget the past and move on, and those people didn't let that happen.

She realised it was Tom. He sounded curious, and perhaps a little bit amused too; relief took the place of the panic as she turned around to face him. "You've discovered my dirty little secret, then."

"And revealed my own too, it seems. This is quickly becoming an eventful night, isn't it?"

He sank down beside her. The auditorium was almost empty – there were just a few people dotted around in chairs, peering down towards the ballet dancers pirouetting on the spot-lit stage.

Nicki felt peaceful here, like she could think things through without everything being clouded by other factors. What other people thought of her didn't matter her.

Except now Tom had appeared, and she suddenly felt self-conscious, as though he'd delved deep inside of her and discovered her real fears and regrets, not just the _dirty little secret_. She supposed she was being paranoid; he'd only sat down beside her, for God's sake.

"Are you okay?"

She ignored his question, flicking back her hair, "I come here, sometimes. I like it; I like the music. When I was a little girl, I always dreamt of being able to dance like that – it seemed mystical, so beautiful. My mum paid for a term of ballet dancing for my birthday, but I quit after two lessons."

"I didn't have you down as a quitter."

"Well, maybe you don't know me."

Tom's lips pursed, "Would you like me to go?"

"No, no. Sorry," a small smile crept over her face before the shadows emerged again, "I'm glad of the company. And I was a bad dancer; I mean, a really, really bad dancer. I broke my ankle in the second lesson. And just when it was beginning to heal, I fell out of a tree, and... I didn't feel like going back to dancing after half a year of agony."

"That sounds more like the person I thought you were."

There was only one dancer on the stage now. Even from where they sat, in the dim light which cast an atmosphere of mystery and magic over the theatre, they could see her eyes were closed.

She was part of the music, at one with the dancing, the feathers on her skirt fluttering as she spun around. She looked truly alive, pouring her passion into every little movement, as though this was all she'd ever wanted to do in her life, and all she could ever dream of too.

"There was..." Tom shifted beside her, "Have you ever watched _Spooks_?"  
"Um, yeah. Is that relevant to our current situation? Or is this just the night for asking the most random questions you can conjure up, perhaps in an attempt to break the ice between us?"

"I don't think there's any ice between us, Nicki."

"No. Just a stream to jump."

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, hearing her voice break, suddenly emotional. He moved slowly, not wanting her to pull down her shutters again and ruin everything he'd built up with her over time. Touched her arm, his fingers tentative, gentle. "We could always build a bridge."

Nicki didn't pull away, but nor did she respond to his attempt to comfort her, "What does _Spooks_ have to do with ice and bridges?"

"Well, there was this scene once. Do you remember Lucas?"

"The one who was in the Russian prison for eight years. Richard Armitage was rather nice-looking, actually, once he'd got past the scrawny stage. Replaced Rupert Penry-Jones flawlessly, too. Beautiful eyes."

"Yeah," it was Tom's turn to look bemused by this turn in events, "Well, he was with this girl. I can't remember what happened, exactly, but she said to him _how can you go off music, seriously?_ And he just turned around and looked at her so solemnly, and s..."

"He said _sometimes you just stop hearing it_. Yeah, I remember."

They exchanged glances. Shared a smirk; if their students could hear them now, they'd never live it down. This was the definition of having no life – coming to watch ballet in a deserted theatre, then quoting _Spooks_. Tragic. It also connected them, though. Perhaps they were both isolated, pushed aside from society for various reasons, but here there was a togetherness.

The girl stopped dancing, slipped silently from the stage as the lights died down and the last chords of the song echoed through the curtains.

"I sometimes feel as though I stopped hearing the music," Nicki said softly.

Tom felt her quiver beneath his fingers. He stood up, and held out a hand to help her up too; he suddenly needed to find some fresh air, and he sensed that she did too. "Come on. No promise of ice creams for the half-time break, but there's a nice garden out the back."

XxXxX

Outside, where it was lighter, he could see her properly. She was thin, although not scrawny; her eyes didn't need make-up to emphasize their warmth and emotion. She wore a plain black skirt and creamy shirt, with long black boots with tapped against the pavement as they strolled around the grounds through the flowers. She was beautiful.

"Which was nicer, then? Armitage or Penry-Jones?"

"Well, it's a tough call. Don't normally go for blondes, but I have to admit that Rupert was a sight for sore eyes. Why?" Nicki smiled again, at the sheer abstract nature to their conversation, "It's alright if you're slightly attracted to them too, Tom – you can admit that to me. If anyone could turn a straight man, it's those two."

He gave a surprised snort.

"That'll be a no, then."

"Oh, shut up, you," he recovered, and gave her a playful tap, "I was just imagining being _a sight for sore eyes_."

"Who said you weren't?"

He didn't reply to that – he was unsure if it was a joke or a rhetorical question. He didn't quite dare hope she was serious.

They continued their stroll. Like a _turn around the grounds_, also from _Spooks_, just after Ros's funeral. Tom had always admired Ros, because she'd been so courageous and intelligent; she'd been snappy, too, but in the end she'd had that humane emotion.

In a sense, Ros reminded Tom of Nicki. Perhaps that would have offended the woman he was walking with now, but he didn't mean it as an insult – they were just similar, both broken people who needed someone to love them.

"And then, sometimes," Nicki was whispering now. She reached out and took a flower from a rose bush beside them, pulling the petals off and casting them aside onto the path like breadcrumbs, "I take a deep breath and realise that, if I really listen, I can still hear the music. Maybe it's distant, sometimes, but it's still there, and it never goes away."

"Yeah," he said slowly.

"There's always hope, Tom. Isn't there?"

He took the final petal from her and blew it away into the wind. Suddenly drawing her close, unable to explain it but desperate to hold her in his arms, rocking her, letting her seek refuge in his shoulder.

He stroked her head, "Of course there is. There's always hope."

"And there's... there's always _a sight for sore eyes_ too, even if it's not in an expected form. I bet Rupert and Richard aren't as nice in real life. Whereas... whereas you're here, with me, and my eyes are perfectly happy."

"Oh, I'm glad about that."

"I thought you would be."

He kissed her forehead, "I'd choose you over Keeley Hawes any day."

She wiped her eyes on his sleeve, and he smiled, because he understood that as her way of letting him in, letting him get close to her. Locking away the shutters forever, and spilling her secrets.

The music was easier to hear when you weren't alone. The ballet of life more beautiful when it was shared.

XxXxX


End file.
